


Thinkers Make Bad Lovers

by locketofyourhair



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, M/M, No Beta, No shame, Not Super Happy Ending, Subdrop, maccready/others, so many women, sole/women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locketofyourhair/pseuds/locketofyourhair
Summary: It’s not something he needs all the time. It’s not even something he’s sure that he likes as much as he knows that it’s something that settles him in his skin. It’s one of those weird things that he learned after Little Lamplight that he used to swear was just proof that mungos (as that’s what he was) were all perverts.It’s a quick handful of caps at first. He’s hungry, his rifle needs a new stock and scope, and two mercs who are clearly together sidle up to him at a bar outside the capital wastes.---On being a submissive when you don't understand anything about being one or kink in general
Relationships: John Hancock/Robert Joseph MacCready
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	Thinkers Make Bad Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> I literally have no excuses. I wanted more BDSM fallout fic. I enjoy the image of MacCready fucking most of the companions. I plan on making this a series, but who knows. Also I wanted to post something on my birthday. So I did. 
> 
> Much thanks to BishopDeaconCardinal for letting me ramble everywhere and have these thoughts.
> 
> Title from Rachel Stamp's "I wanna be your doll." Because I know exactly one song apparently.

It’s not something he needs all the time. It’s not even something he’s sure that he likes as much as he knows that it’s something that settles him in his skin. It’s one of those weird things that he learned after Little Lamplight that he used to swear was just proof that mungos (as that’s what he was) were all perverts. 

It’s a quick handful of caps at first. He’s hungry, his rifle needs a new stock and scope, and two mercs who are clearly together sidle up to him at a bar outside the capital wastes. “250 caps if we can use you,” they offer, and he shakes his head. 

He can hear the way they say use. He knows his worth in bed and in battle. “400 if we’re talking freaky shit.”

The smaller of the two looks him up and down. “300 and we’ll let you come.”

MacCready snorts. He’s barely out of Lamplight. A strong breeze makes him come. “Number’s firm. I only negotiate about killing.”

And he means to go back to his beer and cigarette but they look at each other and then one of them is growling, “Fine.”

He remembers thinking distinctly that this is an easy handful of caps when it happens, when the female merc is fucking him with three fingers and his mouth is full of her partner’s dick. They’ve put something on his cock to keep him hard, some bit of leather, and she presses herself against his back and whispers, “Greedy little slut.”

He doesn’t feel shame about sex and what he likes, but that doesn’t stop the way his skin feels like it’s caught fire as she teases him. “Wish I’d brought something to keep you stuffed from both ends. That’s what you want, isn’t it, greedy thing.”

MacCready doesn’t know what to do with the way his body feels like it’s on fire, the way he’s groaning around the man and pushing back on her fingers, and his cock is just leaking precome. 

Then her partner pulls him back by his hair and says, low and confident. “Beg me to fuck you, and she’ll sit on your face.”

RJ MacCready doesn’t beg, not for anyone. Not for a thousand caps. That’s what his pride says. His mouth though, is wrecked from sucking dick and his entire skin is prickling. “Please, please. I want it.”

“Be a good boy and tell us what you want.” He doesn’t remember who is talking, because all he can concentrate on is the roaring in his ears. 

“Please fuck me. I need it. Please.” And then they’re changing positions, him slamming into MacCready’s body while her thighs bracket his head and he feels like he’s flying. 

In the morning, he feels amazing but unsettled. There are an extra 100 caps though, and he can get behind that. 

Lucy sees it in him eventually, and she’s not nearly as rough about it and that’s fine, better because it’s her and he loves her like crazy. It’s fine if she sits in the edge of a chair when he’s been on his knees for ten minutes and just waiting for her to something. 

She knows he likes kneeling, likes being put on a show, but then she lifts her dress and there is nothing under it and she says, “Be good for me,” in a way that just sets him on fire and leaves him all awkward joints as he falls between her legs to work at making her scream. 

And it’s nice, after. Because even if she doesn’t let him come, she holds him and pressed kisses long his neck and he thinks there is no better place in the world than coming out of that weird sex haze and being held by her. 

Except nothing good can last and she dies. And he shuts away that part of himself because Duncan needs him. He has responsibilities and promises that he needs to keep. He doesn’t even have time to get laid, let alone let himself fall into that weird fuzzy place that happens sometimes. 

Until he goes to the commonwealth. Until he’s struggling to get by because he washed out of the gunners. Until some crazy lady with fancy hair wanders into his room at the Third Rail and drops 250 caps into his lap like it’s nothing. 

She doesn’t want to fuck him; that much is clear and it’s nice to know. Except when they aren’t out murdering people, she’s dropping back in the Third Rail and flirting with Magnolia or at the Dugout and wiggling her eyebrows at Scarlett. It’s not that MacCready wouldn’t. Christ, would he. She’s a stone cold badass, and there’s a steel in her voice when she faces off with raiders that makes his skin crawl with need. 

It’s possible that it’s been almost three and a half years since he lost Lucy, and because his boss leaks crazy sex energy everywhere, he’s suddenly aware of every month that he has been alone. He wants her to knock it off because the only thing worse suddenly than being 16 and stupidly horny is being 22 and stupidly horny. 

It comes to breaking after she’s managed to save some random kid near Quincy, refuses to sell him into slavery and he can hear the way she spoke to the Gunner rattling over his skin. She celebrates at the Third Rail again; he watches her sneak off with two drifters with a huge grin on her face. 

He doesn’t follow. He doesn’t need to. 

Fuck, his gut is tight with need, and he’s looking at the patrons of the bar like one of them might be what he needs. And none of them are. He’d trust Charlie for that before he’d go with the other assholes here. 

So he does the sensible thing and goes up into the Old State House because why pay for shitty beer when your boss is friends with the darn mayor. Hancock doesn’t like people just helping themselves to his supplies, but he loves to share. 

Also, if he’s looking for someone to take him apart, Hancock would know where to go and he wouldn’t steer MacCready into someone who was cruel about it. 

When MacCready comes up into his room, he’s even allowed in with his rifle still at his back. Hancock is sitting in the middle of his couch, smoking with a ton of mentats open beside him. “What brings you up here, brother?”

“Boss is using our room at Rexford,” he says, sitting across from Hancock. His skin feels too tight, and he’s unsettled yet. “And I really don’t feel like being around for that.” 

Hancock laughs, and he offers MacCready a cold beer. “Way she works through the town, I’m surprised you aren’t used to it.” His black eyes narrow. “Jealous?”

MacCready shrugs, and he doesn’t even want to drink, really. He just can’t be still, and he doesn’t want to be alone. Even Hancock’s gaze is making him twitchy, ready to flee. “I wouldn’t say no, but she hasn’t offered. Besides, she usually takes women back.”

“Tragedy for our team.” Hancock is just watching him, like he can see into MacCready. 

It makes his stomach twist, and if he weren’t gripping a beer, he’s sure that his hands would be shaking, sweating. It’s freaking stupid, but the way Hancock just quietly watches him is making all of this worse, more. 

“Yeah, well,” he says, like it matters. He takes another swig of his beer. He doesn’t actually know. He doesn’t know why he’s here. This was a stupid idea, because he doesn’t think he can just say it. 

Except Hancock is closing his tin of mentats, giving MacCready that steady gaze. “Hey, boys,” he calls, and the neighborhood watch stick their heads in. “Get lost for a bit. House is closed.”

MacCready blinks, and the heat that comes from Hancock just watching him starts to blister over his skin. “What are you doing?”

Hancock leans back, his boots on the table in front of him. “You don’t like chems, and you’re barely drinking. And you can’t sit still.” He shrugs, and he looks dangerous. Honestly, he looks a little bit like the boss when she’s got a knife in one hand and a plasma grenade in the other. “So tell me why you’re here.”

MacCready sighs and sets his beer aside. He scrubs a hand over his face. “So... look, it’s not really that weird.”

Hancock doesn’t have eyebrows, but his forehead still makes the motion. “MacCready, just spit it out. No judgements.”

He closes his eyes. “I have this thing, a sex thing.” God, he’s blushing ridiculously, literally sweating under his collar. “And I can’t just— I’m not like Nora. It’s the opposite, I guess? I don’t want to make people fall apart for me.”

“You want to fall apart for them,” and Hancock sounds genuinely surprised, like that hadn’t honestly occurred to him. “And you came here so...”

“Not stupid. I know that I could end up in a bad place. Sometimes I like being tied up, and that’s a good way to end up gutted.” He lights a cigarette. “But you know everyone in Goodneighbor. You know someone who could do it and wouldn’t murder me.”

That earns him a laugh. He sneaks a look at Hancock through his eyelashes, and the mayor looks genuinely thoughtful. “Yeah, I can find someone to top you. If that’s what you’re looking for. I mean, if Nora isn’t on the table.”

“God, I wish.” This is easier to talk about, how frustrated he is. “She’s so goddamned scary, but even if she choked me, I know she’d keep me safe.”

Not that MacCready is super into that so much. 

Hancock makes a sound, shifting on the couch. “I’ll ask around. There’s a few women I know off the top of my head, but two don’t live in Goodneighbor proper—“

MacCready licks his lips. He can’t look at Hancock when he says, “It doesn’t have to be a woman.”

Now Hancock goes quiet, and he’s just looking at MacCready like he doesn’t know what to make of him. “Men opens it up a little,” he says, and his voice is just a little strained. It’s probably hard to tell under the general raspiness, but MacCready knows him too well not to get it. 

“Yeah, I’m an equal opportunity slut,” he says, and he means for it to be a joke, but Hancock doesn’t laugh, just smokes and looks at MacCready, slow and steady, and MacCready should say something because the air in the room has shifted.

Because he’s suddenly and completely aware that Hancock probably isn’t adverse to a little weird sex in his off time. And now that he’s let himself consider it, he wants. He knows Hancock will be good to him, and he’ll be safe. 

MacCready swallows hard, and he forces himself to look Hancock in the eyes. “Ghouls are fine.” And his voice doesn’t even sound like his, strained and breathy at the same time. 

“All right,” Hancock says after a long stretch of silence, and he licks his scarred lips. “I can really find you someone else. Some nice smooth-skin.”

MacCready shakes his head, unwinding his scarf and taking off his hat. “I wouldn’t trust them as much as I trust you.”

Hancock stubs out his cigarette, sitting back with his legs spread. “You need to stop, you tell me, okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” MacCready is already moving off his own couch onto his knees, already hard. “Just, please?”

Hancock smirks then and he stands up, crossing over to MacCready. “Okay, kid,” he says as he shoves his hand into MacCready’s hair. “I’ll take care of you.”

And he does. He starts slow, rough hands running over MacCready’s skin as he lets MacCready pull his cock out of his pants and swallow it down. The texture is different than he’s used to, but he doesn’t mind, particularly when he can feel blunt nails dragging over his scalp and a raspy, “Look at you, eager thing.”

He palms himself through the rough fabric of his pants, letting his throat go loose. It’s been a long time since he’s sucked dick but he remembers the trick, how to breathe. Tears prick in his eyes, spilling over, and he groans around Hancock. 

“Fuck, MacCready,” and MacCready could sit here for a while, just let himself be used. He could feel the problems that he always carried - caps, the medicine, what business did he have raising a kid - starting to fade. They wouldn’t go away, but he could focus on this, on just being used. 

He groans again and even the hand against his own cock feels less important. Everything has stopped and he’s centered on making Hancock feel good, on using every trick he’s ever learned. His skin is flushed with need and he could jerk himself off like this. 

But he doesn’t want to, unless he’s told to. He wants to be good more than his body needs release. 

Hancock pulls out, and MacCready tries to follow, stopped by the hand in his hair. “You okay, kid? You’re quiet.”

MacCready rolls his eyes up, trying to focus on Hancock’s face. He’s too warm, still mostly dressed, and Hancock hasn’t even taken off that stupid hat. 

Hancock pets softly at his hair, at the tears on his face. He’s gentle for a minute, and Mac can feel himself under that pleasant haze of need again, remember that he’s on his knees in the old State House. 

“Hey, kid. I need you to check in: you still good?” Hancock tucks a hand under his jaw to study him. 

MacCready pulls away because he feels too exposed suddenly, like Hancock can see into him more than anyone should. He hasn’t felt like this in so long, not since Lucy. He puts his forehead against Hancock’s hip. 

“I’m okay,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Better than.”

Hancock pets his hair, and he’s still gentle. “You really needed to get fucked, huh. Long time for you?”

Mac nods, licking his lips. “Yeah,” he croaks. And then, “Please.”

Hancock digs into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a tube of petroleum jelly. He pushes it into MacCready’s hand with a wide grin. “If that’s what you want, you get yourself ready and maybe I will. If you’re good.”

MacCready nods because he can’t trust his mouth and words, because it feels like his blood is pulsing, like he’s ready to beg already and isn’t that fucking embarrassing. His shirts are easily, stripping out of both of them. He pulls off the belt that holds his bandolier up, then the one for his pants. 

Hancock says nothing until MacCready is naked, and then his hand is at MacCready’s hip. “You want this, you have to show me, baby. Get on the couch and let me see you be good.”

Then the lube is in MacCready’s hand, and MacCready is clambering up on the couch. It should be embarrassing how much he fumbles at first, pulling himself up onto his knees with Hancock settling behind him. He doesn’t care, gets his fingers wet. 

“Start with one, baby. Don’t hurt yourself,” Hancock murmurs, and his hands are rubbing along the sides of MacCready’s hips. 

MacCready obeys and one finger is just enough to get him groaning, to have him wanting to rub against the couch. He can feel Hancock’s black eyes on him, watching everything. It’s so much. 

“Look at you,” he says again, and he’s gentle, almost reverent. “You really are a slut for this, huh, kid.”

“Yeah,” MacCready says into the couch, skin too warm. He teases his own rim with a second finger because he can take it. He knows he can, but he has to be good and show himself. “Please.”

“Already? Go for it.” Hancock leans close and rubs his teeth over the dip in MacCready’s spine. “I bet if I shared you, you’d love it. Just open the door to the guys I trusted and let them all over your ass until you couldn’t walk, huh?”

MacCready groans, remembers other times, with caravan guards and a merchant. He would have paid for the ammo, but they offered and he wanted. He wanted to feel the second guard in his mouth as the first and the merchant took turns inside of him. He cries out and his fingers are moving faster, deeper. 

He doesn’t want to come without feeling Hancock inside him. 

“Oh, you like that idea, Bobby? Maybe just raffle you off to my favorite drifters. I’m the mayor. I could do that.” Hancock’s fingers are rough when he reaches down to touch between MacCready’s cheeks, where he’s stretched. 

MacCready’s cock aches, and he can’t help the sounds he’s making. It’s worse because he knows Hancock would. He’d take care of him and make sure he was safe while he was being used, the way Lucy did. The way Nora probably would. 

God, he wants it. 

“Fuck me,” he whines, and he’s grinding on his fingers, trying to shift so Hancock’s finger can join his own. 

Instead, Hancock taps at MacCready’s wrist. “Okay, kid. I’ve got you.”

And he does. He’s still completely dressed, but he pulls MacCready close, arm around his waist. Hancock is gentle as he gets him lined up, letting him realize what he has to look like completely naked in Hancock’s lap. 

But he’s not gentle when he pushes inside, filling him in one thrust. It punches a noise that isn’t quite a sob out of MacCready’s throat and he pushes back. He’s aware of the soft “please” that keeps tumbling from his lips and the way Hancock grips at his hips, strong enough that there will be bruises in the morning. The rest of the world is gone, melted away so it’s just the couch in Hancock’s office with the windows open and the sounds of the drifters yelling below. 

Hancock’s breathing hard against his skin. MacCready knows he’s pushing back in the way that he’s vaguely aware of his body, but it feels like Hancock is just using him, strong enough that he can take him over and over and it’s wonderful, perfect. He feels like he might be able to float out of his body, to see the way he looks fucking back into the lap of a fully-clothed ghoul, the freaking mayor of the city. 

“I need,” and he whines. His dick is throbbing. 

“You can’t get off from this?” And Hancock’s teeth graze over his shoulder. “What kind of slut are you, Bobby?”

MacCready sobs and grabs the couch. Hancock rams against his prostate, enough that his entire being feels alive and perfect and flying. “I can, I can,” he says, and he wants to be so good; he wants to show off how good. 

Hancock buffs against his skin, holding him close to grind hard against him. “Good boy,” he offers, and his own voice is strained, like he’s close, and MacCready shudders, whines because he doesn’t want Hancock to come and for this to be over, not when his entire body feels like it’s crackling. 

“Come for me, baby, come on,” Hancock says, one hand low on MacCready’s stomach, almost close enough to touch his dick, and that’s it. He’s coming and crying and mess, his entire frame shaking. 

He’s only vaguely aware of Hancock pulling out and spilling hot over the skin of his back, collapsing forward on the couch. Even with the open window, the entire room smells of sex, and his limbs are loose, awkward. 

He doesn’t fall asleep, but it feels like he does, only slightly aware of Hancock moving off the couch. MacCready closes his eyes and listens to him move around the room, waiting for the hazy feeling to begin to fall away and the world to come back into focus. 

He doesn’t expect Hancock to come back to the couch. He runs a wet cloth over MacCready’s skin, doing his best short of running a bath to clean him. It’s unnecessary; there’s a jerry-rigged shower in the Rexford that MacCready can use later, when he thinks he can walk. 

But it is nice, the soothing feel of the cloth along his back, then between his legs. Hancock is gentle but quiet as he cleans MacCready. 

He closes his eyes, because he thinks he could sleep like this, in a naked sprawl in the mayor’s office. Nora would come looking eventually, tomorrow, and the people of Goodneighbor would ignore it because it’s not their business. 

He isn’t expecting Hancock to haul him up into a sitting position and put a blanket on his shoulders. He definitely isn’t expecting the can of water, or the gentle way Hancock wraps his hands around it like he’s not sure MacCready can hold it on his own. 

He definitely isn’t expecting Hancock to pull him close. They aren’t cuddling, not exactly, but it’s close. Hancock has lost his red coat and the stiff shirt he wears under it, so MacCready could rest his face against the scarred skin of his chest. If he wanted to. 

He kind of wants to. 

MacCready sips the water. “As soon as I can walk, I’ll grab my shit and go,” he offers.

Hancock hums, ruffling MacCready’s hair. “Or you could stay. Nora’s probably still going in your room, if I know that wildcat. No refractory periods.”

He presses a kiss against MacCready’s forehead. “Just take the time you need, kid.”

And it’s the kiss that does it, makes him hyper aware that he doesn’t actually have a reason to stay. He’s awkward when he stands, putting his water on the table. He feels wobbly and weird, but he’s been drunker than this as he begins to sort out his clothes, pulls his pants on and shoves his underwear into the pocket, his undershirt and his duster. The over Whitt’s he favors, the scarf and hat and socks and ammo, can wait until he’s showered. 

“MacCready,” Hancock says, as serious has he’s ever sounded. “I’m serious. You should stay for a bit. It’s not good for you to walk around so fast.”

MacCready’s skin prickles and he has a flash of anger because he doesn’t need to be coddled. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly. He shoves on his boots and then grabs his gun. He only wishes he’d thought to bring his pack, so he’s not stumbling across the street with his stuff in his arms. 

He doesn’t care so much that he can’t hide the fact that he’s freshly fucked. He’s never been good at hiding that. 

There a sense in his skin that this is wrong, that he needs to sit and take a minute to take stock. His stomach is cramping again, and he’s been here before. He needs Hancock to stop fussing over him so he can go and take care of this, drink himself stupid at the Rexford or maybe just pass out. 

Hancock touches his arm, like he’s going to spook. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Let’s just talk for a minute. Until you have your sea legs.”

MacCready pulls away again, but Hancock has him by the duster sleeve and won’t let go. “It’s fine. Thanks for the good time.”

He doesn’t know what to make of Hancock’s expression except that after a minute he realizes the mayor is handing him the water can and then a dose of Rad-X. 

Anger bristles along his spine. He doesn’t need this. He’s good. He got what he wanted. “I’m fine. You didn’t even...”

“Humor me? I should’ve insisted. Bad etiquette.” Hancock is steady and it would be easy to fall back against him at least until his body stopped freaking out. 

Instead he takes the dose and drinks the water, and Hancock lets him go. He can feel Hancock watching him as he leaves. 

MacCready is shaking by the time he gets to their room at the Rexford. Nora is passed out but alone. The other mattress is wet still from sweat and probably worse, and he wrinkles his nose. 

There’s an overstuffed chair that’s beginning to leak stuffing on one side of the room, but it’s still comfortable. His teeth are chattering when he grabs the blanket Nora has kicked away, and he really does mean to get that shower. 

It’s easier just to sleep though, curling up around himself as tight as possible.


End file.
